Thursday night in Union! Camino Portugese

Thursday, April 13 at 7:00 PM
Illustrated Travel Talk:
Hiking the Coastal Camino Portugese

Vose Library, 392 Common Road in Union, Maine.

Telephone: (207) 785-4733
Email: librarian@voselibrary.org

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Tom Jamrog, Triple Crown Hiker ( Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, Continental Divide Trail), will give an illustrated talk about his June 2016 hike of the coastal Portugal Camino, a lesser known pilgrimage route.  Tom’s 250 mile hike started in Porto, Portugal and ended on the Atlantic Ocean in Finisterre, Spain.

He will discuss trip preparation, the contents of his 10 pound pack, and the challenges encountered in walking this particular route, which included the Spiritual Variant or the Maritime Way.

This program is free and open to the public.

Support Walking!

All Doors Do Not Open To Our Needs

Multiple sources here in Finisterre pointed to O Centolo as the place that was still cooking up the authentic Galatian soup that I have been craving. Finding a place that cooks it here in summer is another story.  
     We passed by the place on our mid day walk earlier today, where we looked through the glassed-in entrances to see people enjoying lunch at the far end of the large dining room. Both Marcia and I assured ourselves that in a few hours, we would arrive here early, in order to avoid yet another night of settling into bed after 10 PM with full stomachs.  

At 7 PM, with almost visible salvatory anticipation, we walked up the worn stone stairs to the O Centolo street entrance off the town Circle only to find the door still locked. The evening’s special perigrino menu choices were freshly posted on the glass of the entrance. We were baffled, but conjured an explanation that any establishment at this level of gastronomy would likely fill, even if starting at 9 pm. Shops and restaurants close in the afternoon for siestas. People eat dinner late here.
     Plan B: we decided to march up to the grocery store where we purchased a €1 liter of local vino tinto and a small package of roasted cashews and returned to our room to leisurely pass the hour, with vivid pictures of that bowl of soup seeping into my consciousness. 

      Then back up those same stone steps where the mahogany door was still locked and through the door glass, the large dining room was empty still. What? We definitely saw people eating here at lunchtime, however, there were no business hours posted anywhere on any of their printed material. With a heavy heart of hope wrung weak with disappointment, we trudged onward toward the shore of the harbor to comb the seafood establishments there for any semblance of the surprisingly elusive bowl.  

    Then it happened! So quickly! We turned right along the road that ran between the harbor and the last row of building when I happened to look up and saw this incarnation of holiness, embodied in a red plastic sign! 

O


 It was all there, my Galatian soup, our vino tinto, and a great atmosphere. Some chinks: our waiter initially claimed he spoke no English, but then returned to our table 10 minutes later to fluently explain that one of our main course choices was sold out. 

    In a related aside, it is a given that local residents may not always be dependable sources of information. 

     One of these grand disappointments happened yesterday in Finisterre. At a lunch spots where our waiter was one of numerous physically fit young Spanish men, I asked in Spanish, “Can I rent a bicycle in Finisterre?” He held up his finger and then went back and brought out a colleague who was fluent in English as well. 

   He told me, “Sorry, it is not possible to rent bicycles in Finisterre.”   

     Fast forward to this morning. 

   On the bulletin board above our breakfast table right by the bus station, a stone’s throw from the restaurant was this poster. advertising Finisterre bike rentals :

       

Meeting Up in The Fog With The Tick Magnet

Walking with your heart in your hand is serious business. It felt like that this morning, on my solo hike from the seacoast town of Finisterre up the incline to one of the most spectacular lighthouses that I’ve seen along either coast of the Atlantic.

Marcia was going to join me for the walk this morning but when it started to rain she decided to hold back and enjoy the private room and maybe read or shop a bit. I appreciated being alone for a couple of hours, being with my feelings about my journey on this last day of walking before we bus back to Santiago, Porto, and then home.
It was good for me to cut back today. I am now in the habit of monitoring my recovery from exercise by taking a four minute sampling of my heart rate variability as soon as I wake up in the morning. It has been fine until yesterday, when I cut back a bit and today I planned to walk for just a couple of hours rather than most of the day, as we have been doing. Today, I was in need of even more rest and recovery. Unfortunately , I was unaware that it would be a tougher 6 miles than I expected. Here’s the elevation profile from Strava.

I ended up doing a loop, first climbing up the asphalt road along the shore to the lighthouse.


There was not much to see today, although there were some breaks in the drizzle and fog.


There were just a few people on top when I arrived.  The usual top-of-the/mountain grot shops were just ramping up and a few tourists that drove up were grumbling about the fact that the bathrooms were still locked up.

I walked past everyone and explored the path less traveled, as usual. Down below the lighthouse on the side facing the West were personal monuments that peregrinos had left behind, in their own frames of importance.

Some shrines reflected losses of others.

It is a tradition here to burn one’s worn and fetid clothing after a pilgrimage of hundreds of miles. Roasted underpants, however, are a bit much.

There are charred maps as well, which I took to be acts of personal liberation, and intentions to walk a more genuine path through our futures.

I decided to walk back through the woods.


Despite my best intentions, with my Brierley map and my MAPS.ME app to guide me, I encountered an untrimmed , overgrown, and rain laden gorse of unkempt trails.  At one time, well-intentioned individuals had erected signs that were now broken off at their bases, and tossed into the sea, no doubt.  Brierley didn’t convey that this off-road path to spirituality was this  hard to navigate.

All the bare, rocky outcroppings looked the same. The neatly delineated and numbered religious sites in Brierley’s guidebook were now merging into an amorphous wildness.


I kept moving in the right direction through the center of the peninsula.

At one point, I looked back and saw a single figure walking behind me, looking as bewildered as I was. I stopped and waited to speak with him, not even knowing if that would be possible, given the disparate languages one encounters here along the path.  It became easy, once the gentleman began to speak in English. He was one of a group of a dozen or so folks  from the Cleveland (Ohio) Hiking Club, several of which Marcia and I encountered a few days ago on the Camino between Santiago and here. Then I spotted his cap, who in was adorned with the new Appalachian Trail logo, which bears quite a resemblance to the scallop-rayed Camino symbol.


If turns out that this was a hiker who completed 1100 miles on the AT, including half of the 270 or so miles in my home state of Maine. We shared our trail names, as well as the fact that both Tick Magnet (his trail name) and I also share the experience of Lyme disease.

We also shared the challenge of finding our way back to our respective hotel and albergue, with Tick Magnet thanking me for eventually guiding him back to safety. With the thick fog, indistinct trail, lack of signage, and him without any compass or gps, Tick Magnet ascertained that he would have in all likelihood been walking for hours in the direction of Cee, and not Finisterre.

It’s so different here. Take the options for rehydrating, for example. It has been my practice to carry little or no water on the Camino, due to the frequent ancient sources like this one, half way up today’s big hill.

A little further up I hydrated with wine that I found left at a picnic table.

When I got back to the Cabo de Vila, our most excellent private alberge, I popped a Euro coin into the vending machine and relaxed with a cold beer.

I visited the Church de Santa María das Areas twice today, however it remained locked all day.  I had even been assured by the owner of our albergue that it would definitely open at noon.

This church was initially built  in the 12th century, with new elements being later added, particularly during the 14th and 16th centuries, to make up its present day structure, a mixture of Romanesque and Gothic styles.

My particular hope to me was to kneel before the 18th-century altarpiece, containing the image of the Sacred Christ of Barba Dourada (Golden Beard), a Gothic sculpture alleged to have been carved by Nicodemus in the 14th century and a central element in a number of legends. One such legend tells that, after stealing the figure, the robbers were forced to throw it overboard as they fled, in order to calm the storm that had resulted from their crime. The figure of Christ was later recovered by a fisherman.  Here is a photo of that image:

My experience of Finisterre us that is is a bit oversold, at least by Brierley, who was the only guide I had.

Finisterre reminds me of another seacoast port way over on the other side of the Atlantic named New Bedford in Massachusetts. It is nowhere near as old, but was settled by Portugese who came there first from the trade routes from Europe, and then the whaling epoch. It is a seafaring town, with a strong Catholic history, a bit battered and worn but a city with very hard working people who have also been through hell to get and to stay there.

Left Bank Meets Nepal

Today is my last day as a perigrino, as I depart Cee and walk just  8 more miles to Finisterre.


 Finisterre is truly the end of the line. It sits on a jutting peninsula in Spain with the broad expanse of the deep blue Atlantic framing the backdrop. 

I have one big problem with being on this side of the Atlantic. I keep forgetting that over here the sun sets over the Atlantic rather than the rises as it does at my home in Lincolnville Maine. I have only been here three weeks, not long enough for me to get reoriented to this new reality.

There was a bit of road walking this morning.  


Despite the light rain and thick fog that came out way today, life still goes on for the rural folk that work the land here.  


Finisterre’s history dates to the Pagan era. 

Brierley’s Camino Finisterre Pilgrim’s Guide lists numerous locations and legends that are associated with points of history here.  He describes the Altar to the Sun Ara Solis and the sacred stones Piedras Santas as ancient initiation and ritual sites. I plan to visit those sites on our day off from hiking tomorrow, but I’m not sitting around at the end of the world.   I only want to hike more.  

The Roman reportedly built a legendary city names Dugio here, a place where legionnaires retired to live out their days. Brierley leans toward flowery mystic language frequently in this book. He waxes on with a suggestion that Finisterre may have even been the actual Elysian Fields.   

Other historians have gone do far to posit that Finisterre was the original and favored location for the burial of Saint James. 

No matter. We have not seen any of the spiritual aspects of Finisterre yet.  That comes tomorrow.

 So far, we have only witnessed a ragtag band of tattered and neon  bedecked Peregrinos limping past below our third floor window here at the best albergue yet,  Cabo da Vila. It’s the sort of place that is magic.  This place holds 52.  It is sold out every night all season, and then the owners take 4 months off. I love being here, now. 

I booked 2 nights’ here, at the recommendation of David Rooney, the Irish Hiking Machine.  I was initially disappointed when Marcia and I were led to two clean bunks, top and bottom, in a room with eight other people. I thought I had reserved a private room. But the friendly owner directed us us to this place and I accepted. It was clean and we need to stay somewhere. I struggled a bit about whether to speak up and risk putting myself into a conflicted relationship at the end of our trip with  or just grin and bear it, as I am typically used to doing.

I decided to go back down to the desk and inquire as to whether there were any options in the building that would leave me with a private room for Marcia and I. The owner opened her reservation book and said that she had one room available  but it had a queen size bed and a bathroom adjacent to the room. We’d pay just an additional €16 for our upgrade.  We quickly moved our backpacks up to a most enjoyable situation, on the third floor, with a homeward view across the Atlantic.  

Here are some representative samples of our day. 

I plan to build one of these outdoor ovens at our camp.
Entering Finisterre
Exploring the Winding Streets
Constant Temptation
Decent wine, price not mismarked
The view from our window

Accepting No Candles from the Holy Company

    elevation profile of today’s walk

Marcia I continue to make good progress in keeping our mileage reasonable, completing 12 miles by 2 o’clock in the afternoon.  This is a seriously rural  portion of the Camino. The best that Marcia could do last night in finding some ibuprofen was getting an offer of one pill from the owner of the of the hotel where we stayed.  I might add that we have been looking for three days for a place to purchase a bottle. Come up here,  you better be ready.

I can’t say enough about the quality of the lodging, meals, and the service that we received at As Pias in Oliveiroa yesterday. We saw this sign on the side of an old building on the way into town and when we got there we inquired about the possibility of renting a room.

    The main hotel was full above the bar but Yolanda, the owner,  told us that they had another building that they renovated where we could have a room but the bathroom was outside of the room. We went over to check it out.  It was superb, a stone building with impeccable appointments, cleanliness, and we also avoided the noisy bar that would’ve been below us if we stayed in the main hotel.

First class digs, happy hiker!
We ended up eating lunch there and then later dinner as well and they provided us with a early morning breakfast to send us on our way. Here’s a shot of one of the courses of our lunch.

They don’t believe in screens for the windows in Spain. Unfortunately this resulted in a single pesky mosquito that really plagued me for a couple hours before I resorted yo foam ear plugs that  enable md me to drift off to sleep.

People don’t understand just how reasonable it is to hike here, even staying in an extremely comfortable  hotel.  There appeared to be particular blessings obtained by our Peregrino status, like the bill I received at check out.

We had a superb private room with  bathroom, lunches, afternoon drinks, wifi, dinners ( with the best flan on the walk), and breakfasts for two. We were also handed a couple of apples as to take on our day’s walk, all for €59 !

Marcia on our doorstep
Next up was a reasonable day’s walk back to the shores of the Atlantic.
Half the day’s walk was on natural pathways with a bit of road walking to be done.  The highlight of the day was one very interesting stretch across the high moors is that was 7 miles long – one of the most isolated stages on the Camino Finisterre.  There were no facilities whatsoever on the stretch with the last chance for food and water at the albergue at the little village of Hospital before we reached Cee.

 

Road Walk
Moor walk

Our Brierley guidebook notes that there are prehistoric stone carvings and monuments dating to 4000 years ago around this landscape that pagans walked centuries before the Christian era even existed. God was here before Christ.  

Two legends are reported. The first is associated with the mythical Vakner “…a terrifying creature, manlike, of a malignant nature, that lives like a troglodyte in the deepest in densest parts of the forest.”

And additional myth was referred to as the Holy Company by H.V. Morton in his book  A Stranger in Spain: Flickering lights dart over the landscape at night.  An invisible presence may try to place a lighted candle in your hand and should you open your hand and accept it you are lost-you have joined the whole company of souls condemned to wonder about purgatory holding a light a candle until you can thrust your candle of the hand of some new ones suspecting stranger.”

 So be careful if you walk in the dark mist here, otherwise you’re going to spend an eternity trying to get rid of your candle. It’s cosmic tag on an eternal scale.  

Our walk was made assisted by our contact with a family from Ireland that was also walking the same path. What are the chances that I should be walking beside Cormac, a gentleman from Ireland who happened to have the same unique profession that I had – a personal business administering and interpreting psychological assessments. 

The time went very quickly as we jabbered  back-and-forth while Marcia talk to his daughter Deidre who had just completed academic assessments as she was moving through the secondary education system in Ireland. 

Deidre, Cormac, and Auntie Mame
Soon 12 miles were completed the last two on a significantly steep downhill where we once again were able to see the broad vast expanse of the Atlantic a looming up in front of us as I felt we had to come home or at least as close to home as possible with this big water separating me from my house. 

No John Deer Gators in Galacia 

Marcia starts her hiking day

Today we further reduced our mileage to a single number, leaving Santa Marina  at 7:30AM and reaching Olveiroa by noon. 

We have discovered where are all the cows are. 


Right here, in the broad rolling farmlands where hay and corn are produced. 


 These farmers do not eschew modern diesel tractors, although we see plenty of wheelbarrow work taking place on the narrow roads and in farmyards this morning.


We have yet to see a single John Deere Gator being put to work.  People walk here, kids walk alone, and even very old men and women shuffle along, aided by canes when necessary.  

I need to either get an altimeter app for my iPhone or remember to bring along my Highgear wristwatch next time. 
It’s hilly, and I want to know here I am in my maps. Having an elevation function allows the hiker to further pinpoint a location on a map. Brierley’s Camino Finisterre Pilgrim’s Guide does a good job at this by listing section profiles that include elevation.  
Marcia and I are back on the same page today, after a real shakeup in my attitude yesterday. Here’s a fact about couples’ travel away from home when you also don’t know the language: it’s a crucible for kindling any interpersonal weaknesses that may have persisted over the years or decades of a life together. It would be the same for any friends, siblings, or even casual acquaintances. Pick your travel pal carefully, lest fractures forment and cleave the best intentioned partnerships.  Fortunately, this world has all we need to absorb those tears. 


    

 I treasure the few travel partners that I have been blessed to share the road or the trails with. 

 In long distance motorcycling, my friend Alan comes to mind. In long distance backpacking, the few individuals that I have spent months of constant movement, occasional pain, treacherous steps, and even impending drownings include my Triple Crown companion Dick Wizard, as well as the luminous individuals who carry the coat-of-arms of MeGaTex make that cut, especially General Lee and Train. Together we have experienced many thousands of miles and hundreds of days up and down the highest peaks and lowest valleys of both geographical and emotional terrain.  

No Gators here. Also no omelets, pancakes, butter plunked down with bread, salad dressings, salt shakers,  or takeout coffee. 


 This is the land of the Mediterranean diet, so it’s olive oil instead of butter, and while the meals are salted when prepared, these culinary practices are a likely factor in reducing the incidence of rampant cardiovascular disease and high blood pressure that we experience in America.  

These folks even drink lots of coffee, yet here, I have never seen it brewed in a Mr. Coffee-type machine nor does it sit in insulated pump carafes like I use when I am rushing over the roads back home. 

This coffee is think, and rich, expressedin gleaming banks of Italian machines, in little coffee shops that punctuate the footpaths on The Way. It is either served in the most functional little espresso cups and saucers, or as cafe con leche in bigger cups brimming with frothy milk. Some mornings when we are served a continental breakfast as part of our stay in an Albergue, we receive two steaming hot stainless steel pitchers: a larger one with steamed thick whole milk, and the other in a smaller unit that is brimming with pure espresso. All for €1 or less and when ordered in a cafe, and adorned with two tiny cinnamon/churros on the saucers as well. 

Here, you have to stop your multitasking, sit, and take the time to savor the moment.  

It is not possible to rush off with a coffee here, where farmers still choose to push a wheelbarrow full of cow shit that they dump near their vegetable gardens.